


E Pluribus Unum

by Kahvi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Child Abuse, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Psychological Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-10
Updated: 2012-04-10
Packaged: 2017-11-03 10:08:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/380225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kahvi/pseuds/Kahvi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richard Brook does not know where he is or who is holding him captive. And, it seems, there could be a lot more he may not know...</p>
            </blockquote>





	E Pluribus Unum

He must have slept. Drifted off, maybe? He got these terrible migraines, sometimes; he could feel one coming on. The damp concrete walls and that cheap horror film decor had not improved, but at least it was better than the nightmares.

“Hello?”

It was the sort of ridiculous place you only ever saw in films. Bad films, where they didn’t have the budget for anything other than poorly lit basements and nasty looking plastic folding chairs someone’s cousin had gotten for cheap. The chair wasn’t terribly comfortable either, but that was presumably a feature, not a bug.

“Listen; my name is Richard Brooks , I’m an actor. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

That was important. And he hadn’t, had he? Richard had always been terribly careful about that; he’d never even cheated on his taxes. Everyone cheated on their taxes, surely, if they could get away with it?

“I was hired to play a part by a man called Sherlock Holmes. I’ve got the contracts; they’re in the safe in my office. If you’ve searched my flat, you must have seen it.”

His friends had teased him about the safe. Of course, his friends didn't know about the Moriarty thing. That had been part of the deal. Richard pulled at his hair. Oh god. He'd agreed not to tell anyone that he was pretending to be a criminal mastermind. Oh _god_. He was in serious trouble.

"I'll give you the combination: 875092. It's my date of birth, backwards. Not terribly complicated." He tried to laugh. It came out as a sort of quivering cough. "See, I'm no criminal mastermind. I knew I shouldn't have taken the job, but he really did offer me quite a lot of money."

Silence. The people who had brought him here - faceless thugs without any form of disguise; no need to protect features so dull that no one could possibly remember them - were not in charge, that much was obvious, but someone had to be listening. Right? It wouldn't make sense otherwise. So whomever was listening must want something; some sort of information, something he could provide... except then they might kill him. That’s what happened in bad films. Oh god. He wasn't being rational.

_Do try to use your brain, Richard. You're better than this._

Yes, fine. Good. He was an award-winning actor. Well, local theater awards counted, didn't they? Not everyone could win a fucking BAFTA.

_Concentrate._

Yes, all right! What could they be after - it had to be Sherlock; something to do with Sherlock. God, he should never have taken that job, no matter how well it had paid. But he had, and that was that, and now he had to deal with the situation at hand.

_You've told them everything you know, and there has been no reaction, which either means they're not listening or they're after something else; in either case, there's no need for you to be wasting your breath, now is there?_

Right. No, there wasn't. He should stay calm. Very calm. Do some breathing exercises; he'd done them at uni, why couldn't he remember any of them? Why couldn't- the door clicked open.

"Good evening, James."

Richard turned, his neck protesting at the movement. It was sore – why was it sore? They'd tied him to the chair, he hadn't noticed. You'd think he'd notice something like that. Drugs. _Of course_ ; they must have drugged him! That explained everything. He glared at the tall, thin man in the doorway. "My name," he hissed, "is Richard Brooks. I told you."

The man smiled. "Well now. That's entirely a matter of perspective, really."

"What do you mean?" Richard struggled to turn his head completely. "My name is not James!"

"Let's let that matter lie for the time being, shall we?" The man made a discreet gesture and the door closed behind him. Richard tried to see anyone - anything - a shadow, a movement, but there was nothing, just the darkening of the room and the quiet click of locks, once the door was securely in place.

"What do you want from me?"

"Strictly speaking, we don't want anything from you, Richard."

Richard. The relief of hearing his name acknowledged was extreme to the point of absurdity. _You know who you are. Don't let him confuse you._ That's right - Richard had read about this sort of thing... somewhere... an interrogation technique. They would try to make him doubt himself, doubt everything, so he would slip up and start talking. Break him down, so they could build him up again. Well, Richard wouldn't stand for it. He was stronger than that. "Then why am I here?"

"A matter of convenience."

"Convenience?! For who?"

"For who _m_."

"Sod grammar; you know exactly what I mean - no one locks people up just because it's convenient! This is Britain!" As he said it, Richard's gut clenched; what if it _wasn't_? He only barely remembered being brought here - the drugs again, no doubt - he could have been taken anywhere really, if they'd popped him on a plane. He could have slept through it, like that time he fell asleep on a charter flight to Benidorm and woke up in a Spanish hotel room with no idea how he'd gotten there. Too much drink, and he blacked out, completely. God only knew what proper knock-out drugs might do to him.

The man walked away from the door, forcing Richard to turn his head the other way. The chair creaked, protesting at the way his body kept forcing it to lean in different directions. "We are looking for information from a certain James Moriarty, and you, Richard, are the key to getting through to him."

Richard laughed; he couldn't help it. The relief was overpowering. Oh, thank _god_ ; they thought Moriarty was real, and they wanted to stop him! That meant they were law enforcement, or something of the kind, which in turn mean they had rules to follow when it came to the treatment of prisoners. He'd told them about the safe, and he'd given them the combination; he was cooperating - it would only be a matter of time before... Richard blinked. He was relieved; he _felt_ relieved, but his body was tense, shivering, as though he was still terrified.

Behind him, the man had stopped. "Is something the matter?"

"No..." Adrenaline, probably. Perfectly understandable. He would settle down in a minute. Just as soon as his heart stopped racing. "I told you; there is no James Moriarty; he's a character I was hired to play."

The man did not reply. He must be standing directly behind Richard, because no matter how Richard turned his head, he could catch no glimpse of him. He could hear him though; hear his even, measured breathing.

Richard waited. Usually, at this point, if he just relaxed and kept calm, something would come to him; some inner voice would help and guide him, tell him what to do. He closed his eyes, forced himself to breathe, and waited. Nothing. Dead silence; the rapid beating of his heart pulsing in his ears.

"You were hired by Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes." Any voice, even that of his unseen interrogator, was better than that claustrophobic silence.

"In person?"

"No."

"How then? By e-mail? How did he contact you?"

"E-mail, yes." Of course; there were e-mails; further proof! "I've got a gmail address I use for work - the password is-"

"-Tarantula, we know."

"You hacked into it?" Then why these questions; if they had the e-mails... "You found everything?"

"We found some e-mails, yes."

"Well, then it's all right, isn't it?"

The silence echoed. Richard's mind was a blank. It was never a blank; there were always thoughts, like voices; vague ideas pottering about in the background. There was nothing now, just him and this man.

"If... if you found the e-mails..."

"The e-mails were unsent."

Richard's heart sped up. He looked down at his chest, as though it could provide an explanation. "I don't... I don't follow."

"You wrote the e-mails."

No. That made no sense at all. He'd read them; they'd been there, in his inbox, like normal; like normal e-mails. "No," he muttered. "I didn't."

The man sighed. "You have really no idea how tiresome this is from the outside. Very well." The lights went out, and shortly, so did Richard.

* * *

"We're going to try a somewhat different approach." The lights were back. Richard must have slept again - if you could call it sleep – he did have vague impressions of noises and images; like falling asleep in the backseat of a car, and hearing your parents talking in the seat in front of you, scenery passing by the windows in a shapeless blur. Drug induced dreams, probably. How were they getting it into his system? He hadn't eaten in... come to that, why wasn't he hungry? He couldn't remember the last time he ate. Then again, he rarely did; days were often a blur, in his profession.

"What?" The man was still behind him, but now Richard almost _felt_ him; a near-tangible presence at the edge of his elbow. He felt... he felt he _should_ be terrified, but his body was calm, utterly relaxed.

"The first thing you need to know is that James Moriarty is real."

Richard wanted to protest, but something stopped him. The seriousness of the man's voice, perhaps? He had always had an overlarge respect for authority; even directors made him nervous. He waited, again, for inspiration; for the familiar ideas in his head, like comforting voices, but still nothing came.

"There is a network of associates; a number of former clients from whom we have been able to gain some rather valuable information. For all intents and purposes, there very much is a James Moriarty."

Richard swallowed. So there really _was_ a Moriarty? An actual person, that Richard had been asked to impersonate? But that didn't make sense; he had not been given any information about appearance or costume - clothes; size, anything. "I don't follow."

The man moved, slowly, into the grubby light. Richard made out a solemn, expressionless face (though he had never been very good with expressions), narrow eyes and thin, tapering eyebrows. "Let me ask you this, Richard. When you take on the part of Moriarty, how do you go about it?"

"What?"

"Indulge me."

"You want _acting lessons_?"

"Things really will go rather more smoothly if you answer my questions simply, Richard."

Richard found himself nodding. He really did despise that cowardly, kowtowing part of himself. Still, perhaps the man was being honest; perhaps it would be easier to just play along. "Well..." It was strange, to consider it without actually doing it. It just sort of happened; like movement or sensation; it was like explaining how your sense of smell worked. Besides, there was a certain intimacy to it; like going to the loo. Not embarrassment, not exactly, but a sense of invaded privacy. "I sort of slip back into my mind, and let him take over."

"'Take over'?"

"Yes, in a manner of speaking." It was all _him_ , of course, all Richard controlling it, but when he was playing Moriarty, that persona slipped to the front, as it were, leaving Richard in the background. "I've always been rather good at that."

"And those are the only times in which he's in control."

"Yes, of course!" What sort of a question was that? Richard felt a dull pain in his knee and looked down - then started. His leg was jittering, almost bouncing up and down, hitting the sharp edge of the table in front of him. He willed it to stop, but it only settled somewhat, like a child caught misbehaving.

The man did not appear to have noticed. "Richard... you keep insisting your name is Richard."

Not this again! "Yes, because it _is_."

"But it is not your given name; you changed it."

"Yes, quite a lot of actors do."

"And what was it before you changed it?"

"It-" Richard's mouth fell shut. The answer - such a simple answer, like asking him what color his eyes were - teased at the edge of his conscious mind. He couldn't grasp it.

The man smiled. At least, that was probably what he was trying to do. "Take your time."

His _name_ \- of course he bloody knew his own name! It was... no, it kept slipping, like the name of some obscure European capital when he was quizzed about it at school. "I don't..."

"You don't remember." There was some emotion in the man's voice but Richard couldn't sort of which one.

"I don't remember." It was the stress of the situation. He shouldn't panic, he told his leg, which was acting up again. He mustn't panic.

"Tell me," he man said, leaning down a little, "are you familiar with dissociative identity disorder?"

 _Don't answer._ Where had that thought come from? He didn't _know_ the answer; he couldn't! "No."

"Also known as multiple personality disorder - a rather inaccurate term, I've always thought."

"Oh." He knew about that, of course; everyone did. Like in films. "You mean, you think..."

"We don't think, Richard. We know. You _are_ James Moriarty. He is part of you."

* * *

The _him_ in the mirror - no, not a mirror; a screen, he'd established that, but it was the closest frame of reference Richard had. He didn't like watching himself on TV; it was disconcerting. He was always playing a part, some character or other, and that him-but-almost-him looking back from the screen had always freaked Richard out, quite a bit. The image was paused, not still; you could see the little blurs of movement about to end or begin, not around him - Richard, the Richard in the mirror (screen!) - but the image of his interrogator, close behind.

"You've videotaped me."

"Child of the 80's, are we? At the risk of repeating myself; in a manner of speaking, yes." A discrete click, a soft whirr, and the image began to move.

Immediately, Richard knew something was wrong. "That's not me," he yelled, wishing he could point. The body language; the subtle little movements; it was all _alien._ Not him. Like the acting, but worse; more deliberate. More _real._ "You've done something; you've done something to the film-"

The man in the room with him shushed him, just as the man on screen began to speak.

_"James Moriarty?"_

_"What?" The not-Richard slumped sideways, seeming both nonchalant and nervous at the same time. "My name is Jim."_

_"Jim, then."_

_"No, not Moriarty. I don't know that name."_

The voice was Irish, lilting. Richard could do an Irish accent; he could do several accents, it was part of his skillset as an actor. He used to do impressions in school. (Didn't he? The memory seemed very far away.) He wanted to protest; explain, _something_ , but the film kept running.

_"So you're not Moriarty."_

_"I just said I wasn't, didn't I? I'm Jim-"_ The man could not be Richard froze. He frowned, eyes moving back and forth as though reading a cue card.

 _"Yes?"_ The on-screen interrogator smiled, encouragingly.

_"Does it matter?"_

_"Not really, no."_

_"What is this place, anyway? I don't remember getting here. This isn't some kinky shit, is it?"_

The interrogator sounded almost amused. _"No, indeed."_

_"I'll blow you, if that's what you're after, but you really needn't go to all this trouble."_

Richard gaped. No. No, no, _no._ Absolutely not. How could they - how could he... "Turn it off," he yelled, but the him (no, not him, NOT him) on screen kept droning on, lazily; a smug dirty grin on his face.

_"I don't mind at all; I quite like older men. You're not so bad looking; I've had worse. I'll bet you have a lovely-"_

"STOP IT."

And mercifully, someone did.

* * *

"I'm not gay."

The man behind him made a sound almost like a chuckle. He had turned off the screen, but it seemed to Richard an afterimage still remained. Just faintly, like a ghost.

"Is that funny, to you?"

"What you're choosing to latch on to? A little, I'll admit. I don't think we'll get anywhere today," he added, clearly not to Richard, as the lights above them flickered slightly in response. What sort of response, Richard could only guess.

"I'm not gay! That's proof, isn't it, that what you showed me has to be fake! I don't know how you rigged it; CGI or..." Richard hesitated. What else did people use to fake footage? "Something," he ended, lamely.

"Had many girlfriends then, have you?" His interrogator said, with the air of a man who had asked the same question ad nauseam.

"No - I mean..." He hadn't prioritized it, that was all. Richard was a busy man, and he wasn't all that highly sexed anyway, so what was the point going through the motions of a relationship? That didn't mean - of course it didn' t mean...

"I'm not going to bother with you any more today, I'm afraid. We'll try again tomorrow." The door unlocked with that same click, rolling more than swinging open, just a fraction.

"You're not going to _leave me_ here!"

"Oh, but I am. Someone will strip you down and strap you to the bed; we've been over this, you know."

"No!" Panic gripped Richard. Alone, alone in this room with that ghost still lingering, and no movement, and not remembering the last time he ate (or shat, or slept); he couldn't! "Wait!"

The man frowned, halting in the doorway. He considered Richard's face carefully, then sighed. "What do you want _now?_ "

"The event. The one that you say traumatized me so much I split into pieces. You know what it is, don't you?"

"The specific event was more of a catalyst; there would have had to be a background of various-“

“You know what I mean!” 

“Yes." Was there a hint of interest in his voice? Whatever; Richard grabbed it and charged ahead.

"So, if what you're saying is true, wouldn't Moriarty be the only one to remember it?"

"Certainly, but I don't see..."

"So tell me! Tell me, and you'll see it's not true!"

For a moment, the man hesitated. Then, very slowly, he raised his right hand, and gave a curt signal with his index finger. The door slid closed again. "All right." He turned to face Richard. "When you were four years old, y-

* * *

Darkness.

No, not _quite_. Darkness you can still see; it's like another word for 'very dark grey'. This was _unseeing_ ; the quiet before a dream. _I'm dreaming,_ Richard thought, but that wasn't quite right either.

 _No,_ said an answering voice, so close it was riveting, _not quite. But close enough_  


_You're Moriarty._

_Oh, well done, idiot. Yes. I am the voice inside your head. Don't you remember me?_

The voice. The one who told him things; helpful things, chided and encouraged him. That was... Moriarty? But that had been there forever; since he was four or five years... Oh.

_Yes, do keep up._

_It's true then. What he told me. Sherlock never e-mailed me._

_Of course he didn't; **I** did. _ The voice was angry. Richard felt it; knew it. It was like he was angry himself. _We did. There is no difference, Richard, and it's about time you understand that._

They were the same. He was Moriarty. He was a criminal. Fear shot through him. No. He'd go to prison. He'd been so careful, his whole life, to stick to the rules, make sure he never did anything wrong. He'd respected authority to the point of tedium, licked people's boots rather than risk a confrontation. He'd learned what people wanted and he'd taken such care to make sure he was that person, took on that role, no matter how humiliating it might be. He was an actor; it was what he did.

_Not anymore, Richard. You're me. We're us. Little Jim is out there right now; he's one of us too._

_But… does he know-_ The thing. The thing he wasn’t supposed to remember. Even trying to think about it was difficult, like a bar of soap slipping through your hands before you could get a grip on it. Like it had never really been there.

_Of course he knows! Oh, he has been useful in the past, and so have you, but think of what we could all do, if we work together. Hm? Doesn't that sound just **delicious**?_

He was Moriarty. He didn't have to pretend anymore. Not on the inside. Life had been so boring, so tedious, so by-the-book that you could cry; all that would stop, now. Oh, sure, he might have to snivel a bit and coddle a few pathetic people with acts of kindness and weakness, but he knew now, who he really was. _What do we do now?_

_I'm so glad you asked. Come with me Richard; sit in the backseat like a good boy, like you always do. I'll protect you, like I always have. You know that, don't you?_

_Yes._

_**Good**. Now, just let me do the talking... _

Richard saw his eyes open as he faded into the background, settling quietly at the back of his own mind. He heard himself speak, saw the satisfyingly shocked expression of his interrogator. It didn't matter too much what he said; it was going to be all right. Everything would be brilliant, from now on.

He was James Moriarty.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Prompt:** _Sherlock (BBC), James Moriarty, Moriarty seems to be an excellent actor. How? Because Jim from IT and Richard Brook are both alternate personalities that Moriarty’s fractured mind has created. How do Richard or Jim deal with finding out they are the creation of a mad man?_
> 
> Thanks to my fantastic betas Roadstergal and Smaych for their invaluable help and encouragement!


End file.
